“Mom had a strange habit. 

Not something out of a horror novel or anything, but strange nonetheless. She never threw anything away. Now you probably think she was a hoarder but she wasn't. She USED everything. She always patched up old clothes and when I or my siblings outgrew something she would repurpose it. Same with plastic or glass or metal. Food scraps, paper, and other compostable materials were turned into compost for the garden she loved to tend. I swear the only thing she ever threw away were dirty diapers. Many of our dolls wore our baby clothes or are made out of them. 

My favorite was my jean teddy bear, Bloot. And anything she made that we didn’t need she gave to those who did on weekend outings where she wore a red hood so the homeless and needy could pick her out of a crowd. I found out why she never threw anything away when I was at an age I couldn't begin to understand her words, but I remember it to this day.

 Kids at school were making fun of me calling me names since they assumed I was poor because of my patchwork dress. They were all dressed in their new school outfits while I was in a dress made of my old dresses. Truthfully I thought the dress was pretty, but they ruined it for me. I came home angry and I yelled at mom. I asked her “Why did you make this dress? Why must everything in this house be old and used again? Why can't you just throw it away and use something else?” 

My mom was a calm woman and waited out my tantrum in silence before having me sit down and listen to her piece. She brought out the old hood she wore when we went on weekends. It had gotten torn and tattered on our last outing and she had been sewing it up before I came home. 

“Look at this hood. You can still see some tears I haven't sewn up yet. I haven't had the time to get to them all. Many people would have thrown it away and gotten a new one, but look at it now, after I get those last few it will be as good as new.” 

“But it’s not new!” I interjected, “It is old and faded and you can see the stitches.” 

“You are right;” she replied patiently, “it is not new. It has scars. The color is not the same as it was when I first got it. I never claimed it was new, only that it was as good as new. The time I have spent wearing it, the tears it has gotten, the number of stitches it has in it at a given time, or even the vibrancy of its color does not define how good of a hood it is. Despite everything it has gone through it is a good hood. It just needed some help.” 

“Then why do other people throw it away?” 

“Because people forget how to fix things, thinking that everything is replaceable. That broken things can’t be good anymore.” 

“What about the things we outgrow? Or don’t use anymore? If they can still be good, why do you turn them into other things?” 

“Because there comes a time when good things end, and they can no longer be good as they are. So they have to change to be good again. Even this hood, when it can no longer be a hood, will change into something else.” 

It was all very confusing for me at that age and I remember getting angry because of it I stomped off to my room and threw Bloot against the wall repeatedly until his eye came out. I couldn’t find his eye and was too embarrassed to ask mom so Bloot was left without his eye. She did start buying me new clothes after that, but never stopped fixing and turning them into new things. 

When I became a teenager is when I understood she was talking about more than clothes that day. One time when I talked a friend out of suicide is when I realized she was using the hood as an analogy for life and relationships. When my friend told me he felt broken, like he had been torn and tattered beyond repair, I remembered mom’s words and it clicked. When I went home that day I threw myself into her arms and cried for I don’t know how long. Luckily, he’s doing great today; he changed his life for the better. 

When dad died that too was a time I had to think back on those words, because life had to change. Mom had changed. Her smiles became hollow, she slept less and less, ate less and less, and for the first time, I saw her throw something away. It was small, a popsicle stick. To an onlooker it was just a normal thing to do, but to me it was the moment I realized something had broken in her, and I didn't know what to do. I just stared at that public trash can full of napkins and popsicle sticks, and the one popsicle stick that didn't belong there, until mom called me to go home. I wish I could say I confronted her, tried to help her, made some effort to stop her from shattering, but I didn't. I didn't know how. How do you help the one who always helped everyone else and never asked for anything? 

The last time I saw her I was heading off to college, she helped me load up my car and gave me a sad smile. When I got to my dorm I saw she had added two things to my luggage. First was the patchwork dress I'm wearing today. The second was Bloot, with a new eye that didn't perfectly match the other one, but was carefully sewn on by my mother. 

A month later I got the call that brought me before you today. That she had thrown away the last thing she ever should have, her life. I couldn't believe it, but it didn't change the facts. 

Among you I see so many of the people she helped and befriended. So many that mainly knew her as the woman in the red hood. Some even I don't recognize. I hope wherever she is now, she knows she was beloved by so many and missed by everyone. I never thought the day we buried her would come so soon…” the tears she had held back till now streamed down her face and she could no longer speak. She looked to her oldest brother, who held the bag their mom had made out of her old red hood, now filled with her ashes to be scattered in her garden, so even in death she can help it grow.